


Theory of Soul

by moochymochi



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Protective Pete Wentz, Punk Patrick Stump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-10-17 20:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10601964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moochymochi/pseuds/moochymochi
Summary: Pete is an upcoming manager at a coffee shop whose dyed hair is his most intense quality. Patrick is an art student fond of that dyed hair, cappuccinos, and sporting tattoos. Getting to know each other should be entertaining.Coffee Shop AU. Mature in later chapters. Inked!Patrick and Gentle!Pete.





	1. 1

Pete hates little kids. Like, the _really_ little ones that don’t know how to talk yet, and instead they make a bunch of weird sounds that range from gurgles to squeals. Little kids are especially bad when they encounter food or drink. A mess is inevitable. So then, why bring them into a coffee shop? Little kids don’t enjoy coffee, and if they make that inevitable mess, he’s going to be the one who - !

“Oh, hey, no worries on that. I’ve got a mop.”

The mother and her drooling demon of a two-year-old looked at him. They looked back at the spill of milk and nodded. 

Pete’s apron was rolled up a bit as he mopped, the fabric tight against his black jeans and his feet stepping with care around the disappearing spill. The mop was carried to the room behind the service counter where he rinsed it, his apathetic coworker watching him go back and forth. It was Saturday evening, things weren’t too busy, what else was there to do beyond staring at people?

“Did you take your break yet?”

“.. No. I will later.”

“Can you do it now, please? Diego said that tonight is one of my manager-in-training nights. I want to make sure everything is done right.”

“You take it that seriously? Christ, Peter, all right.”

After pouring herself a shot of espresso and swirling it with too much cream and caramel syrup, she walked to the back of the shop and sat at the furthest table. Her phone was out and her shoulders were turned away from the service counter. 

Pete was left to monitor the front area. The mother and child had slipped out, the bundle of brass bells on the door ringing from when she had shut it behind her. The remaining patrons were a young man hunched over a laptop and two women in their forties gossiping at each other at a speed that suggested the faster they spoke, the faster their wrinkles would fade. His gaze slid off them and readjusted on the young man. He hadn’t served him earlier – what was he drinking, a cappuccino? – and therefore hadn’t observed the finer details. The young man’s eyes were covered by a pair of glasses, his hair also covered by a small hat. The sleeves of the cardigan he wore flapped every which way for each movement of his fingers across the keyboard. He seemed kind of.. nerdy. Though, seriously, someone that age cooped up in here on a Saturday night? Yeah, that was nerdy.

His judgments were swiftly interrupted when the young man stood from the squished armchair. They made direct eye contact and Pete panicked; he hoped he hadn’t been caught making rude expressions while he stared. 

The young man, now approaching the service counter, shoved his hands into his pockets and cocked his head like wanted to start trouble, but would never dare to in a million fucking years. He glanced at the menu above Pete and pulled out a wad of one dollar bills.

“Can I get a cappuccino?” 

“Of course,” Pete replied, his tone courteous. It was his turn to glance, and for him, it was aimed at the young man’s tattoo. A pair of open sunflowers stretched from his collarbone to his left earlobe. The ink was black, and yet the details of the blooms allowed him to picture them in full color. That was cool. He wondered if he had more. “Do you have any, I mean, sorry, would you like that for here?”

“For here.”

Pete smiled and took the offered money. He was told to keep the change, the young man now at the wooden bar where patrons typically waited for drinks. He wanted to ask for a name for the drink. But he couldn’t, not when there were no other orders, it would be odd. He could ask him and claim it was due to barista habits? No, no. Shit, never mind, he needed to make this drink.

“Hey, can you do something for me?”

Pete turned toward him, immediately going into customer service mode and responding, “Yes?”

“Can you draw a design in my cappuccino?” the young man asked. His lips twitched and he went on to say, “You know, I’m sure you’ve seen on Instagram.”

“Oh, yeah. I can draw you something.”

Pete set to work. The cappuccino was cranked out and given extra foam to allow for some caffeinated artwork. Using a thin metal rod, which was supposed to be for unclogging grounds from the machines, and never was, his one broken rule, he began to draw. It took him longer than he would have preferred, causing him to worry that the drink was chilling too much. The final niceties of the piece were rushed because of this. He had drawn a maple leaf. A frothy, brown and white maple leaf that was handed to the young man a few minutes later.

“.. Is that the marijuana leaf?”

“Wha - ? No, no, it’s a maple leaf. It’s fall, so, I figured it would be fitting.”

The young man’s lips twitched in a different manner, this time into an upward position for a moment. He was making direct eye contact again, saying, “Okay, I can see that. Thanks. I like your hair, by the way, it reminds me of Ryan Gosling. It’s just a little bit more fluffy and yellow.”

“Really? Uh, cool, thank you.”

Amid Pete’s reply, the young man shifted and started toward his table. 

Pete also liked his hair (not because of a secret desire to match Ryan Gosling), since it made him stand out. Having dyed blonde hair, with the only a quarter inch of his dark brown roots showing, was about the craziest he could do. Standing out was fun. While he may not stand out in a way that was at the same level of intensity as a neck tattoo, he still felt unique.

\---

Within the following few hours, it was time for the shop to close. It was almost eleven. Pete’s coworker had dipped out around twenty minutes ago, it didn't take more than one person to close, and the two older women had exited when they saw Pete shutting off the neon ‘OPEN’ sign. They young man remained locked in a blinking contest with his laptop. He didn’t quit until he noticed a person’s shadow blocking the beams from the overhanging glass lights.

Pete cleared his throat, “I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave. It’s our closing time.”

“Sure, okay. What time are you guys open tomorrow?”

“Six in the morning.”

“Great, got it.”

The young man shook his head in understanding and gathered his laptop, tucking it into the backpack near his feet. It was zipped and he was soon walking toward the entrance without a word. From behind, the overall low cut of his shirt and cardigan displayed that the sunflower tattoo extended toward his spine. The petals of a third blossom curved into his shoulder blade. 

“Have a good night!”

Pete watched the young man bob his head in acknowledgement. He then began to tidy the freshly-abandoned area. Beneath the initial cappuccino cup his coworker had made, he spied the name card that they attached to most drinks. Through folds and dried pearls of coffee, he read ‘Patrick’. Huh. He would have dwelled on the name longer if he hadn’t noticed the thin leather wallet poking out from a bundle of napkins. When he picked it up, he realized two things: the wallet definitely wasn’t made of actual leather, probably that vegan pleather stuff, and the wallet needed to be returned. 

Out of habit, Pete dashed to drop the trash in the bin and cups in the sink. He went to push the front door ajar. The smells of downtown Chicago in October grabbed his nose, currently a mix of smoky chimneys and cider, and he briefly grimaced. He ventured, “Patrick! Patrick!”

No answer. The clutch he had on the wallet flexed, his voice ringing out for a second time, “Patrick!”

The shuffle of sneakers on concrete were heard from the reversed direction Pete was facing, and, before he had the opportunity to turn around, he heard, “Why are you calling me?”

Pete faced him, the hand with the wallet automatically extended. He tapped Patrick in the chest with it, and said, “This is yours. It’s yours, right? I found it at the table you were sitting at.”

“I’m such an idiot. Glad you didn’t steal my two bucks in here. I guess they pay you guys enough?” Patrick joked, taking the wallet that continued to be held to his chest.

Pete’s hand dropped when the wallet was secure. He had watched it be reclaimed and saw another tattoo appear on the other’s forearm, having been uncovered by the sliding of the cardigan. He could only detect that it was a set of words, the wink of skin gone once the wallet was placed in his backpack’s side pocket. 

“They pay us enough. No worries.”

“Good. I’m Patrick, but you already know that. How’d you know?” Patrick wondered. He made an odd, scrunched face. “Did you look at my driver’s license? I hope not, I look like a pink marshmallow in that.”

“No, I.. Your name was on your cappuccino’s card from earlier.”

“Hah, duh, that makes sense. What’s your name?”

“Peter. Pete.”

“ ‘Peter Pete’ ?”

“I mean Pete. That’s my first name, short for Peter.”

Wincing internally at how obvious it was that ‘Pete’ was the nickname for ‘Peter’, the taller of the two leaned against the shop’s doorframe. He tried to smile.

Patrick blinked at him and asked, “Do you go to the I.I.A.?”

Pete was confused by the question. Why would he think that he goes to that place? The Illinois Institute for the Arts was pretty fancy, from what he had heard, and he was just trying to get a management position at the shop. He shook his head.

“You look like you would.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re young and working at a coffee joint with some decent maple leaf drawing skills,” Patrick said. Both arms folded across his chest.

A laugh escaped Pete, “You think? Is that why you wanted a drawing, you wanted some comparison?”

“Kind of. Like I said, you look like you would.”

Pete shook his head again. He spoke with Patrick until they both noticed the increase in breezes that repeatedly raised goosebumps on any exposed flesh. They decided to separate after a joke about this part of the city being infamous for its droves of hipsters that invaded the vintage stores on the weekends.

Upon leaving, Patrick turned to call out, “Do you work tomorrow?”

“I do. Five to close!”

Pete noticed him wave and soon noticed himself touching his neck. Tattoos were beautiful if done correctly in the correct place on the correct person. Maybe he should get one? He could even ask Patrick for an opinion.

\---

Forehead covered in mushy coffee grounds, Pete decided this was the one thing he hated more at his job than little kids. He was underneath their in-shop grinder, which was the size of a shoebox, and attacking it with a wrench. It had been leaking all evening, and when he called Diego to see if he would allow a repairman in, he was encouraged to “Try and fix it. I know you can do it, I know you can run the shop on your own.”

Pete decided to take a break. It was almost ten, they were going to close in an hour. There had been no Patrick for his entire shift, and he was beginning to feel silly for expecting a visit. He had been asked if he was working today, not if he was willing to save a seat by the service counter at five o’ clock on the dot for him. 

Outside, in the alleyway between the shop and local dry cleaning chain, he rested against the wall. The scratchy bricks made imprints on his biceps, caused by him choosing to hold his cell phone close to his face. 

A voice reached his ears from somewhere down the alleyway, “That you?”

Pete recognized Patrick, assisted in the fact that he checked to see who it was, and he gestured for him to come closer. The other was trotting through the alleyway, his backpack from yesterday in his right hand and a paper sack in the left. He brought the paper sack to eye level. 

“Do you want a drink? My friend had extra from a get-together last night,” he offered. Closing the distance between them, it was easier to see that the paper sack was heavy and hear that it contained a liquid sloshing around. “It’s pretty gross, I’ll warn you that much.”

“I’m working, I can’t. Are you even old enough to drink?”

“Well, no. I turn twenty-one in.. fourteen months?”

“Shit, you’re really counting down, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. And now so are you.”

Pete raised an eyebrow, not entirely certain why he said that. What’s more, he wasn’t entirely certain why he said what came next, “That doesn’t matter to me. You’re of age anyway.”

“You mean age of consent?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Patrick chuckled, almost succeeding in providing a distraction from the pink tint swelling from his sunflower tattoo to his ears. He placed the paper sack on the ground with a soft _clink_ and arranged his backpack to have both straps on his shoulders.

“Okay, you’re not the typical art student working at a coffee shop. You’re the typical gay guy working at a coffee shop,” Patrick said. 

“And? You, You’re the typical teenager trying to get drunk on a Sunday before a week of suffering through school.”

Pete glared. He was glad he could find a fair retort, however, aside from that he felt weird. 

“I don’t know if you can tell at this point,” Patrick started, “but I came here to see you. Did you want to see me today?”

The shining honesty could already be noticed in Pete’s features, he knew this, forcing him to say, “I did want to see you today. To hear you say that, it’s, I’m pretty happy right now.”

Patrick took a single sidestep. Being made aware of that created equal parts excitement and weariness. To know his presence was wanted made him shy, and his confidence slipped down the slightest slope. 

“Can I maybe see you this week? Maybe not at my job?” 

The light of the nearby streetlamps reflected in Patrick’s glasses for each second he shook his head in agreement. His voice was gentle, “I’m broke. A low-budget hangout would be best.”

“Do you like walks? We could go through downtown, a little ice cream instead of a full-blown meal.”

“Today’s high was around fifty degrees, you nut!”

“It’s a really good ice cream place. I swear.”

Patrick smiled and agreed once another jab was made at the idea. He put his number in Pete’s cell phone and informed him that Thursday or Friday were the freest nights he had this week. The cell phone was warm from Patrick’s palms when it was replaced in Pete’s pocket. They chatted for handful of minutes more until it was noted that the shop had been missing its supervisor for an unacceptable amount of time. Waves were exchanged.

Inside, Pete was unfocused. Work was difficult when you were stoked, horny, and anxious altogether.


	2. Chapter 2

Pete tried to figure out what he was tasting. Well, besides Patrick. Beyond that, he detected a heavy dose of.. buttered rum? Walnut something? He swirled his tongue against the other’s once more. Nope, he still couldn’t tell. He pulled back.

“What flavor did you get?” 

“Buttered pecan. But now all I taste is that chalky chocolate you got.”

“Chocolate is the best.”

The ice cream date had been a success. They had been the only two oddballs in the joint, enjoying their dessert with a set of bar stools that squeaked each time they so much as breathed; some 80’s rock ballads serenading them over the loudspeakers. When they had finished – Pete crunching his cone down to nothing and Patrick allowing his to get soggy and tossing it – they stepped outside. They were greeted by the Friday night air, hands and cheeks attacked by the dropping temperatures.

Walking through downtown, they tightened their scarves. Their mouths formed questions, laughs, and fucking stupid battles of wit. It was a good flow of conversation. That flow paused outside of an upscale restaurant, where a cellist was playing out on the patio. 

Patrick had been enamored by the bellows from the string instrument and had shooed them into the nearby loading zone for the restaurant to the side. He wanted to use the hiding place to listen without being frowned at by the restaurant’s snooty, unappreciative patrons. He also wanted to use the hiding place to make out. 

They were tucked away, their pupils dilated due to the limited amount of street light available. Each kiss made a _smack_ noise, the cello accepting their additional bits of music into its melody. 

“You’re,” Patrick started to ask after breaking free from the teeth on his bottom lip, “you’re in your twenties, right? Oh my God, don’t be thirty.”

Pete scowled, “You ask that now? I’m twenty-four.”

“I guess that’s all right.”

“Hey, you’re making me feel old.”

“You’re making me feel young.”

Against the wall, Pete’s back was pressed harder. There was a hand on each of his shoulders, wrinkling the fabric of his pea coat. His own hands were cupping Patrick’s ass. He couldn’t help it. That ass was plump and soft and right there. 

Another minute later, Patrick’s mouth was speaking and not kissing, “This is nice. Do you want to take me home?”

“Home? You - Are you serious?” Pete asked. He had to ask. It had been a while since he brought anyone home. And he never had anyone suggest in a casual manner that almost frightened him. “I have work early tomorrow, but I’m up for it.”

The instant he said the word ‘work’, he came to a realization. He had received a new set of keys at work today from Diego. Closer to management! The set included a key for all registers, the safe, and an updated one for the front door. It was the only set of keys currently in his pocket. In his excitement over the new set, he had left his personal set of keys at the shop. No apartment key on hand. 

With a groan, he explained the situation to the young man he was tangled in.

\---

“Who knew this place would be spooky at night,” Patrick mused after the other had shushed him for the third time.

Pete sighed when he understood that his date wouldn’t shut it, “It’s not spooky. It’s peaceful here. Just.. smell the beans and hear the floor.”

Many of the shop’s beans were ground right behind the service counter, allowing that authentic scent to permeate the building. Even the magazine ‘Elmhurst: Chicago’s Greatest Suburb’, meant to appeal to locals and updated monthly, was soaked in the scent of coffee as it sat on one of the front tables. Beneath those magazines and tables, the hickory wood paneling had a sound for every movement they made. It wasn’t an obnoxious squeak, no, much more similar to an inquisitive warble. The combined sensory occurrences were exquisite, why couldn’t Patrick hush and understand that?

“Find them?”

“They’re here,” Pete said, jingling the personal set of keys for emphasis. Behind the service counter, they had been in a cubby next to the basket where spare sugar packets were kept. He tucked them into his front pocket and blinked at Patrick. Set to go? It didn’t feel that way. He felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a freighter truck going full speed. He didn’t know what to do. His eyes glimmered in the soft radiance from above the menu board. The shop’s name displayed in a neon sign, Saved Latin Brewery, was the only current source of light. 

This Friday night’s friskiness had faded. It would have been hot if they had stumbled into Pete’s apartment a few blocks down from the restaurant they had paused at. That had kind of been his plan. Making this trip to the shop screwed with their mojo. Instead of a fresh couple ready to sling one another’s clothes off, they were now a moody adolescent and an absentminded barista. Both were going home alone tonight, it didn’t need to be said. 

Pete cleared his throat, walking to where Patrick had taken up residence on a love seat, “Sorry. I promise I’m not always _this_ smooth. I don’t want to intimidate you.”

“Hah, please do.”

“Please do what?”

“Intimidate me.”

“Huh?”

Patrick shook his head in a ‘Never mind, you dork’ sort of way. He bumped their shoulders playfully, delighted with how solid the taller man’s body seemed when he made contact. He was on the edge of bumping them together for a second time when the gentleness of Pete’s voice caught him off guard.

“.. I liked how you were kissing me earlier.. Shit, uh, that’s not the only thing I liked. Not to sound like a douche.”

“What else did you like?”

“I like,” Pete licked his lips involuntarily, excited to give the compliment he had been preparing all week, “your tattoos. Seriously, looks so good on you.”

Patrick zipped the Frida Kahlo print jacket he wore to its highest point, presumably to hide himself, “You said ‘tattoos’. You know I have more than one?”

“Yeah, I, yeah I saw the one on your wrist, too. The day I met you.”

“Did you read it?”

“No, your sleeve covered it before I could.”

“Do you want to read it?” Patrick asked, the jacket already adjusted. He was going to show him. He didn’t mind sharing his body art, especially with someone he had a romantic interest in, but he did enjoy the slow process of revealing it all. It was a turn on for him, not a fetish or kink, a turn on. Very minor. The reveal caused a tingle from hips to toes. There was a limited number of tattoos decorating him, which meant a limited number of opportunities to surprise or stir whoever he wanted to show. He wanted to do it well. 

“And it’s not my wrist, it’s my forearm.”

Simultaneously surprised and stirred, Pete watched two tattoos appear. He also watched the gap between them close when he was offered to take in the sight. Ink was visible on either of Patrick’s forearms. They were held side by side, aligned into a poem. The black letters were a flourished and bold layer that dominated the original canvas of white skin. Not a single word was capitalized, not a single word initially clicked into an overall meaning. He stared.

_i read about the afterlife_

 _but i never really lived_

“It’s, I think it’s great,” Pete told him, glad he wasn’t being quizzed on what the words signified. He didn’t want to seem like an idiot. It was beautiful regardless of the meaning, beautiful because Patrick had wanted to show him. “It’s cool. Do you have any more?”

Patrick snorted, “Geez, you’re greedy. You just want to undress me and know all my secrets.”

During Pete’s babble of a defense on his part, Patrick smiled and was grateful that there was no demand of the tattoo’s meaning. He got pissed when people did that. The sunflowers are gorgeous and the poem is from a talented author. That’s it. He got pissed when people couldn’t be bothered to do their own thinking about what little bits of life they encountered. 

“Pete?” Patrick allowed him a moment of air, his tone serious enough to catch attention. “Any chance you’d want to hang out with my friends and I? We’re doing this thing next Saturday.”

“Next Saturday? Probably. I don’t work, but I don’t know if your friends will want me around.”

“Hey, you’re likable.”

“Oh, I know I’m likable. I don’t know if I’m too old for your crowd, though.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and leaned toward the other. Not much coercing was needed from his hands before they were physically connected. Pete’s kisses wandered this time, tiny trails of saliva becoming morning dew that glinted on the sunflower’s petals. He went to ruffle Patrick’s hair, the light locks sprouting here and there among his fingers while he flexed them. Patrick was a garden that he needed to stroll through. This evening’s ice cream flavors were gone, melted by salted breaths. His mouth moved to uncover the pale collar bones that had been previously zipped over by the jacket. He was readying himself to flaunt his dumbass skill of undoing a zipper with his teeth when he was stopped. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder. 

“Come next weekend. We’ll finish this there.”

“.. Yeah?”

“Aren’t college parties the best places for this sort of stuff?”

It was Pete’s turn to roll his eyes, although it was done in a less theatrical manner. Being referred to as ‘stuff’ wasn’t exactly an ego stroke. Neither was being an adult and having to make an appearance at some freshman mixer. At an arts school. Shit, he felt nervous at the thought. 

\---

The nervousness Pete had experienced more than a week ago had morphed into an almost-palpable lump of anxiety resting at the margins of his throat. 

He glanced at the party’s surroundings. A three-bedroom apartment in midtown, sparsely furnished, and with one too many shoes and red solo cups littering the floor. He ignored the young lady who had let him in, her gaze, caked in navy blue eyeshadow, following him, and stepped further inside. Able to view the bulk of the guests, he noticed he was overdressed. His Timberlands and pea coat failed to blend with the guests’ tattered band shirts and box dye jobs. 

He felt embarrassment begin to mix with the anxiety. Too bad there was no Patrick to huff at.

Ultimately, Pete managed to snag a drink from the kitchen without anyone pestering him. Not that he was much of a drinker, he simply figured it would help him to mingle. He took a sip. Yuck, whatever that tipsy guy with the snapback had poured him should not be in the same cup. Did he taste vodka with apple juice? This was definitely a group of college kids wanting to one-up each other and lacking the awareness of what even constituted a one-up. And where was his college kid? The reason he was presently attempting to meld into the walls?

In a faux pas of modern dating, he sent Patrick a rather needy text message. Something along the lines of ‘Where are you?’ and ‘I’m waiting’. When there was no response after ten minutes, he deepened his sin and trailed the original texts with ‘I don’t know anyone here’ and ‘Are you mad at me?’. Ten additional minutes later. Nothing.

“Um, excuse me,” Pete called out to a passing girl who couldn’t have been older than eighteen. He slid off his spot on the wall, the drink he held two-thirds full. “Do you know if Patrick is coming tonight?”

“Patrick who?”

Quickly getting over the fact that he had no idea of a last name, he gave a description, “Kinda chubby, glasses, tattoos -”

“Pete?”

Pete whipped around at familiar voice. His drink sloshed and annoyed the girl he had been talking to. She walked away and left Pete to marinate in the sight of Patrick and whoever he had his arm around. A guy. The beard, moustache, and just general thick brunette hair (wrapped into bun, nonetheless!) this guy had made Pete’s smooth chin feel naked and unattractive. 

Patrick’s brow furrowed, “I heard that. I mean, I think I heard that right. Pete, you would use my weight to paint a picture of me before anything else?”

“No, no! Sorry, it was the first thing that came to mind. I, I’m sorry..”

Awesome, now Pete found him. He really didn’t view Patrick’s weight to be his most defining characteristic. And judging by the mildly disgusted expression on his face, there was no way he would be believed. He jumped from one problem to the next, staring at the third person rolled into this situation. He parted his lips to speak, and was promptly beaten to it when this third person smelled his fear.

“Neil,” he stated, reaching out for Pete’s hand and giving a shake. He moved out of Patrick’s hold, yet kept them connected at the hip. “We were at the same bookstore earlier and got caught up. Decided to come here together.”

Neil nodded at the kitchen area. Patrick took the hint that he needed a drink and they easily made a pathway through their friends.

Pete was left rooted to the spot with his own drink. He frowned and held back a sigh.

Who the fuck mixes vodka and apple juice!?


	3. Chapter 3

Being the polite party goer he was, Pete eventually finished his drink and tossed the cup in the trash. Eugh. He surveyed the scene.

He had lost track of Patrick and Neil close to a half hour ago. The fact that he was having to keep track of them combined with the assumption that Patrick wasn’t keeping track of him made him feel.. not good. Maybe he should dip out of here? His one connection was gone and nobody here appeared comfortable with small talk. He had already tried. The furthest he had got was a prodding to reveal whose parent he was and which kid he was here to force home. They were all too young and too conceited and too _artsy_ or whatever. 

In a flash of emotion, he wished he was the same. Only for tonight.

“Hey man, where’s the restroom?” Pete asked a kid sitting by himself on the couch. He received a yawn in reply and a gesture down the second hallway.

He spotted the restroom at the end of the hallway. The door was ajar, a toilet in view. His fingers were reaching for the handle when he noticed another door, right beside the bathroom. It was shut, though the noises from within certainly weren’t shut out. He heard talking. Grunting and laughing. Then talking again. He thought he heard Patrick talking.

Shit. His ear met the cold wood of the door and he began to listen. Yes, it was Patrick in there. The effort to understand the conversation slipping through the cracks was doubled.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Why? Seriously, why?”

“Nothing, Neil. Some other time.”

“No. Don’t fuck around with me.”

The exchange worried Pete. Sweat prickled at the edge of his hairline and he was gripping the doorknob with both hands. And there was no need to keep an ear pressed in order to realize what came next.

A yelp, accompanied by Patrick hissing, “Quit it! Stop!”

In the movies, like, Inglourious Basterds or Star Wars, the hero managed to save the day in the most badass or heart-warming way. Grabbing the villain by the scruff of their neck and tossing them aside or destroying the evil fortress in a shower of sparks from a laser beam. Everything turned out fine, and the hero was barely phased with the audience’s approval washing over him. That was what he wanted. He tried to be the hero when he slammed the door open an instant later.

“He t-told you to stop!” Pete exclaimed, the stutter forming due to the sight he encountered behind the door. Patrick was on his back, smushed into the carpet under Neil’s weight. Each of them had their pants undone and edged down slightly. Patrick was the sole person with his cock out. Despite its flaccid, not-meant-for-you state, his hero was distracted before continuing, “Get out.”

Neil stood, Pete noticing that they were the same height as pants were readjusted. He exhaled, “We were just finishing. By the way, mind your own business, asshole.”

“You’re the asshole. Get out.”

“I’m going!” Neil glared, and headed for the door. He jammed his shoulder into Pete and the two of them had a short shoving contest, Pete ‘winning’ by knocking the other into the pointed edge of a decorative end table in the hallway. Neil swore, Pete flipped him off and fully entered the room. Blood was pounding in his ears from the encounter. 

Once the door was locked and Pete was kneeling, he raised a brow, “Uhm, hey. You okay?”

Patrick looked at him. He had reduced the amount of exposure by tucking himself back into his briefs, his jeans folded around his hips. The voice he used was that of a child caught with an elbow scrape after being told not to challenge a tree, “I’m okay. I’m sort of dizzy, the shots are catching up to me.”

Pete frowned, “No, I mean, did Neil hurt you?”

“He didn’t.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Together, they stood. Pete noticed the black hat he had seen Patrick wear the first day they met on the bed, and he handed it over. It was on the younger man’s head for less than five seconds before hitting the floor. Patrick had rushed forward, arms around Pete’s middle. He kissed him. It was slow and warm, a mutual hum between them. 

“Can I ask you something?” Pete continued to hold him, watching those damp, pink lips; the idea of the hero becoming harder to commit to. “What’s your last name?”

“Stump. No jokes, I’ve heard them all, even the ones from Mars.”

Pete smiled, “Mars, huh? Okay.”

“What’s your last name?”

“It’s Wentz.”

\---

“.. How do you live here?” Patrick pondered, his socked feet making themselves at home on Pete’s couch. They were kicked up on the armrest. No, he wasn’t referring to a leaky roof or loud neighbors, nothing of that sort. He rolled his eyes when he noticed a framed Beastie Boys summer concert tour poster, faded to a brownish tint. It was from 1988, Michael Diamond posed with a microphone and tie in hand. “It’s boring here. I’ve never seen this much beige.”

In the kitchen, Pete didn’t say a word. He was focusing on his French Press, which, to note, was not beige. It was a lovely silver color. He poured the brew into two mugs, and swirled an equal amount of milk into each. Steam trailed behind him on the way to join his guest on the couch. Patrick complained when the heated ceramic touched his palms.

“If it’s too beige for you,” Pete started, “you should paint me something. I could hang it.”

Patrick shook his head, “I’m not a painter.”

“But what do you study at the I.I.A.?”

“Still life with charcoal, ceramics, the occasional mixed media works. And painting.”

“So what are you?”

“I’m an artist, Pete,” Patrick groaned. He fidgeted in place on the cushion. “I’m an artist of many facets. But I know what I like.”

Pete didn’t know if that last sentence was a hint of flirtation, and his safe side took over. No pursuit. He chose to take sips from his coffee. His eyes were a deeper brown than usual in the low lighting of the living room, and his skin was, too. This made it easier to tell when he was staring, the glittering contrast of his pupils obvious. 

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier. About your weight.”

“It’s fine.”

With a sigh, Pete set his mug on the coffee table, “Sorry, the party got ruined for you. Really.”

Patrick’s feet dropped from the armrest and folded beneath him. His own mug joined Pete’s and he moved to claim a seat on the taller man’s lap. Their arms slipped around either necks or waists. 

“I’m glad you didn’t let him.”

“He wouldn’t have. I happened to show up when he was ending things.”

Shrugging, Patrick kissed him. It had already been a day since they last kissed, technically - they left the party at a quarter past eleven and had arrived at the apartment minutes to midnight. It would have been sooner if Pete hadn’t argued and insisted on paying for the cab, just making the fare plus a tip of a whopping fifty cents. 

He kept his mouth over Pete’s for a solid minute, sporadically sucking in air, his teeth clenched when he pulled away. 

“I’m sorry I’m so goddamn annoying,” Patrick said. He made a sound, a sob weaved with a huff of anger, and didn’t appear ready to talk. Yet he forced another sentence, “I’m sorry if I snap at you or, I don’t know. There’s a lot going on right now, and when I talk to people it can all feel like too much.”

Pete fumbled, no strong options readily available. He cooed, attempted eye contact, and even made a joke about the end of his adolescence. He received mere head shakes in return. It wasn’t easy to provide comfort when he didn’t exactly know what the issue or issues were, and, at last, an embrace kept Patrick steady. What in the world _was_ going on? He ran a hand through his own hair, gripping the bleached blonde tips as if hoping to draw some sense out of the situation.

“With a lot going on, thanks for letting me be a part of it.. Patrick? You’re not annoying, I like you,” Pete said. 

Patrick leaned out from his spot on Pete’s shoulder. His eyes were red. Not from crying, but rather from each time he had shaken his head earlier, his face rubbed against the knitted fabric of Pete’s sweater. Hearing those words was nice. He didn’t believe him, it’s fine, he was comforted nonetheless.

“You understand, don’t you?” Pete asked while doing his best to analyze what he was seeing here. “I know we’re, well, not that close, I -”

Whether he understood or not, Pete wouldn’t know tonight. Pale fingers jumped beneath his sweater to touch the waiting flesh. He involuntarily flexed at the feeling, his tenseness and desire to define his muscles stirring a laugh from Patrick. The sweater was on the coffee table soon enough - oh, the tip of the left sleeve had landed in a mug, he almost wished he could stop and find the OxiClean! - and Patrick was at his belt buckle. He had to help him with it, due to him getting a little heavy on the makeout session they had begun. Once he was free, he went to return the favor, and was met by a swat. He paused.

“Don’t worry. Besides, you already had a sneak peek,” Patrick told him sternly. He bunched up Pete’s boxers on the sides and shifted them over his cock. It bounced a bit from the action, settling into place on a plot of thick, dark hair. He made a mental comparison, it’s a guy thing, definitely not personal, lost, and set to work.

Tender is the word Patrick would use to describe their encounter. It could have been because of what happened at the party, the fact that this was their first true intimate encounter, or simply by Pete’s more gentle nature. His hips danced with Patrick’s tongue. The ceiling above him ceased to exist behind shut eyes any time a particularly rough stroke or sloppy lick occurred. His right hand rested on the sunflowers the entire time, the left tucked in between some cushions, and he didn’t go past a feathery squeeze. Not even when he was brought to orgasm. The sunflowers were released and he wiped a thin trickle from Patrick’s chin. 

Pete straightened out, his backside on the couch while he buckled his belt. His softening cock was damp and uncomfortable, although he wasn’t about to disappear for a shower. He watched Patrick.

“Good?” Patrick stated, despite the upward inflection. 

Pete nodded, “Real good.”

It was odd. Not the blow job, the events that had brought them to this point. The worry over what happened with Neil remained. He wanted to talk about it more, along with Patrick’s outburst and how he refused to accept reciprocation. How would one reintroduce all these things to a conversation? He didn’t know. And, to be honest, thinking about it served him nothing but the jitters. He reached out, and touched the nearest hand he found.

“I’d like it if you stayed here tonight. I’ve never had an artist bless my bed with his presence,” Pete teased, wanting to make the other smile. He saw Patrick’s lips twitch. 

“I guess. But it’s cold out, and I don’t have pajamas.”

“You can borrow my old ones. Plus, you wouldn’t be cold if you would drink the coffee I made.”

“The coffee is ‘eh’.”

“All right, sleep outside.”

Pete knew he was being insulted in return for the artist comment. He flung the couch’s throw blanket at Patrick’s head. 

\---

Pete worked four doubles the following Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Twelve hours each day. His hands were shaking at the end of the shifts from the caffeine he had to drink to push through. He hadn’t seen Patrick since hurrying him home on Sunday morning so he could get to the shop on time. They had promised to text, and, presently, this was what they had:

_Hey come in for a drink after classes. It’s on me : )_

_i needa study_

_It’s cool. Tomorrow?_

That was Monday morning. Today was Wednesday, late afternoon, and there was no response. He wasn’t going to further screw up anything by double-texting.

The checkered twill of Pete’s apron hugged his waist. He was stretching, one hand aimed for the coffee filters on the shop’s highest shelf. He snagged them and was relieved. When he set them on the service counter, they came close to knocking on the floor. Startled, he saw Patrick planted in the single loveseat. 

“Huh?” Pete mumbled. He informed his coworker that he was taking his break.

Patrick sensed him. He also sensed an incoming beating of the verbal variety, which caused him to turn his head. It was rude not to face the person who was telling you off, especially when you knew you deserved it. Still, he retained hope that turning his head would diffuse the majority of it.

Having Patrick seemingly teleport into the shop was unexpected, yes, and seeing him with a black eye was different kind of fucking unexpectedness.

His tone was low, “Patrick, what the hell? What happened to you?”

Patrick sighed and began to pull out his cell phone.


	4. Chapter 4

“These two are from Monday night,” Patrick sighed. “Both taken within a minute by my friend. Geez, Pete, seriously, I need you to stop gawking. It’s rude.”

Pete was currently holding younger man’s cell phone. Goddamnit, his break wasn’t long enough to deal with this. He flipped between two photos that had been put on display for him. The first was Patrick standing on a kitchen table with one foot kicking at an empty snack bowl and the other gripping what must have been a liter-sized bottle of gin, while the second was Patrick bending over the table and clutching at his face, blurs of the same bottle from the previous photo falling to the ground and someone rushing forward. He had busted his ass after dancing on a table. He had given himself the black eye! Here he was thinking there had been a cat fight or a car accident!

The frustration in Pete’s voice was obvious, “What’s wrong with you? Getting drunk on a school night and -”

“I only have one afternoon class on Tuesdays!”

“- thinking you’re so cool to show off by jumping around like that. You got hurt.”

Patrick puffed out his cheeks and then blew out a stream of air, “I’m fine. I am. Fine. I’m here now, there’s nothing to worry about. When are you done with your shift?”

Oh no, no thank you. Pete’s thick eyebrows tilted into a line of disapproval. Showing up to his shop with a ridiculous, self-induced injury after radio silence for over three days? And so quick to claim top priority at the end of his shift? His mind had set off sprinting. 

“I’m busy. Wednesdays are inventory days,” he said. Both arms folded across his chest.

“I thought on Wednesdays we wear pink?” Patrick attempted to joke. He shook his head when he received no response, “That movie was from you generation! You should be laughing.”

“.. Patrick, what are you doing here?”

“Seeing you.”

“Nothing’s wrong? Your first choice for, I don’t know, _communication_ was to sit here and wait for me to notice you?”

Patrick looked away. His glasses shifted along his nose, the tip catching the black plastic bridge. He didn’t like how he was being spoken to. He rested one hand on the backpack he had brought with him, as if ready to haul it over his shoulder to leave. There was hesitation, accompanied by a lack of maturity when he chose to bump the backpack against Pete’s nearest foot and say nothing.

The sight of the injury, extending from Patrick’s eyebrow to the skin beneath his lower lash line was pretty gross. It was like a chewed mouthful of mulberries, thick and purple. Either that table was made of steel, or that face was made of Playdough. Pete wondered if it had been iced. His feelings of disapproval and frustration wavered, the faint crow’s feet on his face fading into a more concerned expression. 

“Can you,” Pete leaned in, “stay here and don’t do anything stupid? Please? I’m off in two hours.”

Patrick dipped his head in agreement. He finally looked up from his bowed position when he was handed a Ziploc bag with ice around five minutes later. It was soon contrasting to the heat of a cappuccino in his hand, courtesy of a disgruntled Pete. The foam had been swirled to form another maple leaf. No, wait. This time it actually was a marijuana leaf.

\---

About a half hour after Pete had promised to be finished, he was removing his apron and washing his hands. He pulled on a plain grey hoodie with his high school’s logo emblazoned on right pectoral. Per Patrick’s request, they moved to the smaller of the two tables outside of the shop. It was cold. No one beyond the occasional passerby joined them, though they remained in a public setting. 

“Wha? You went to West Aurora High? No wonder you’re gay,” Patrick chuckled with a gesture toward the other’s hoodie. He smiled.

“Uhm, what do you mean ‘no wonder’?”

“I’ve heard there’s a ton of hot guys there.”

Pete involuntarily touched at the logo on his chest, saying, “I mean, I don’t think there was any more than a normal high school. Though, our baseball team my junior and senior year was definitely full of stunners. The co-captain, Dustin Pratt, was the best at - hang on. We’re not talking about that. Don’t get me off topic.”

Patrick chuckled again, “You don’t want to tell stories of the glory days? What topic are we on, anyway?”

“You. Why are you getting shitfaced on a Monday night and waiting until today to tell me you got hurt?” Pete asked.

In his seat, Patrick’s body twitched in recoil. The continued bluntness was almost overwhelming. He supposed that’s what failed to make him the adult here. He knew he needed to talk about this, that’s why he had come here. There was still time to run, he knew that, too. If he did that, he would be wasting Pete’s time more than he already felt he was. He clasped his hands together in an effort to remain calm. 

“Last Saturday was rough. Neil freaked me out. I went to that party on Monday to, basically, to forget,” Patrick said truthfully. His swollen eye seemed to throb at the memory.

“Oh. Fuck, now I feel bad for not doing enough last time I saw you.”

“No, no! This is my own thing,” Patrick insisted. “I was being ridiculous on Monday. That’s why I didn’t talk to you, I figured you would feel guilty or something.”

Guilty, weak, threatened, yeah, it was all there. Pete was chewing on his bottom lip. He released it to ask, “Do you, have you done this before?”

“Kind of. I’m not good with ex’s.”

“So Neil was your ex?”

“Yes.”

Pete couldn’t suppress the frown that came forward. Seriously? Taking your jerk of an ex to a party and allowing yourself into a room alone with them? Choosing to erase the incident from your mind by getting shitfaced to the point of self-harm a couple of nights later? His frown deepened. Of course, he couldn’t ignore the most painful detail of everything that was unfolding here. He reached beneath the table, his right hand touching Patrick’s knee.

“I’ve said it before, I like you,” Pete told him. He removed his hand, the fingers curling into a fist that he moved to his own lap. “I’ll like you better if you’re not being shady. You need to tell me, not everything, but enough for me to get what’s going on. Dealing with ex’s can be hard. Plus, I’m not the greatest at reading people’s minds.”

Patrick appreciated what he was hearing; unfortunately the cynic in him cut through their moment, “Okay. What if you become an ex?”

“I’d sorta have to be your boyfriend first. Is that the plan?”

“Maybe. I’m usually only into guys that have also been beaten up by a table.”

The humor was welcomed with a shared laugh, Pete’s fist remaining intact as he wondered if this issue was going to resurface. Following a line of logic, it shouldn’t. Not if they were in a relationship. He felt nervous, and the emotion showed when he took the plunge. 

“I can.. I am a good boyfriend. Let me be yours.”

“If you’re so good, why are you single?”

“Er, overqualified?”

Patrick tucked some loose bangs behind his ear, which reappeared within less than five seconds. His body language conveyed shyness. The realization that Pete was serious in this discussion had pushed him back into a submissive demeanor. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“I’ll take overqualified,” Patrick said. He had returned to tucking his hair in vain. 

Pete beamed, “Great! So, the first rule of having an overqualified boyfriend is to always call me if you need me. If there’s a problem you can’t take care of, let me know. I’ll be there. Kim Possible style.”

“Got it.”

\---

More than a week later, on a Friday afternoon, Pete was tending to a certain nineteen-year-old collapsed on his couch. No, not because of eye pains, that issue had subsided into a mild bruising and tenderness. The reason? Too much pizza. The empty carry-out box, greasy and invading the coffee table, was groaned at by Patrick.

“How can I feel this stuffed from a veggie pizza?” he wondered, patting his stomach, which was sagging over the waistline of his pants further than usual. 

“Because you ate most of it. Because I don’t like veggie pizza,” Pete reminded him. He was walking to the couch, a glass of water in hand. He demanded Patrick sit up before he passed him the glass. “Should we go to the movies later? Or has that ship sailed?”

Patrick didn’t give a verbal reply, alternatively making a sailing motion over some waves with his hand. He rolled to one side, and soon returned to his original position, the throw blanket on his feet kicked at. 

“Since we’re not going anywhere, take your pants off. You look uncomfortable,” Pete said. He took the glass back and waited once he had a sip of his own.

“Look away,” Patrick said. His hand rested on the silver button of his skinny jeans. 

“Really? Am I supposed to do that the whole night?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Besides, it’s embarrassingly difficult for me to get out of these. I only wear these because they make my legs sexy,” Patrick explained. He didn’t move until the taller man had turned around.

While Patrick was taking his sweet time getting undressed, Pete went to place the glass of water in the sink. He paused. The lights in the kitchen were dimmer and a meter from the couch, so he flipped them on. The lights in the living room were subsequently turned off. From the couch, visibility was limited. Gusts from the fresh November outside the apartment were heightened.

“Hey,” Pete murmured, stepping over the skinny jeans and drifting onto the couch. For himself, he was already down to socks, briefs, and his high school hoodie. In the minute it took arrange a reasonable layout, he noticed Patrick’s legs remained crossed. The wool sweater he wore came midway down his thighs, Pete earning a growl of discontent when he tried to thumb at the edge. “No?”

“There’s a tattoo on my inner thigh,” Patrick said reluctantly. His legs squeezed together for emphasis. “It’s stupid. I got it when I was fifteen.”

Immediate temptation struck. Pete's grip going to the set of hips in front of him. How stupid could the tattoo be? He wanted to know. Even if it was stupid, he assumed he would find it attractive regardless. Any inked, soft skin had been the object of his affection since they had met. 

“If you’re sure. But I’m thirsty over here, and thick thighs save lives.”

“My god, contain your idiocy.”

“C’mere.”

Pete’s lips found their way to the top of Patrick’s boxers. The worn material was made wet by his tongue, soon pushed aside to allow him to kiss any skin underneath. He continued to use his tongue, pressing it to the skin that had been indented from the clinch of the elastic. He heard nothing beyond an increased breathing rate from above, so he placed a hand on Patrick’s left thigh. The flesh was stiff from the enduring crossed legs, and he rubbed at it, his larger hands able to cover the majority of the area. What he found was smooth, the texture a complete contrast to his own whiskered thighs. It was nice. And there wasn’t a need to put this much effort into hiding, he probably wouldn’t be able to distinguish the tattoo in this lighting. He was already struggling to discern how much of a boner he was causing. Definitely important information. This was his first time going down on Patrick. 

The friction pissed Patrick off. It was great, exactly what he wanted, with the exception of having no desire to spread his legs. Pete was kissing him on his jawline now, the same hand that had started on his thigh now settling into the limited space below his crotch. He grunted, the sound escaping him in a much more sensual manner than he had intended. 

Patrick’s tongue clicked in annoyance, “You can suck me off without all the touching. Did you know that?”

“Mmhm,” Pete said. He suddenly switched his holdings, the hand that had previously been attacking the thigh fixing on Patrick’s cock. He placed several more kisses on his jawline and promised, “No sucking off until I see those thighs. I want the whole show.”

Wordlessly, Patrick uncrossed his legs. He was exposed after several sturdy strokes that brought his erection to its peak. 

Pete persevered in his stroking, and moved to take a look at what was below. He squinted and saw the tattoo. It was on the inner left thigh, from where his balls ended and his knee started. There was quite a bit of ink, and he squinted harder.

“What is it?”

“It’s, ah, they’re waves. Ocean waves stacked on top of each other. It’s a tsunami,” Patrick said. He nudged at the the hand on his cock.

“Wow, with the way you were acting, I was expecting the words ‘Choking Hazard’.”

“Haha, hilarious.”

Pete gazed at the tattoo with the new knowledge of what it was. The waves were indeed stacked, their crests particularly foamy and surging diagonally. If he had to guess, he would say the art style was more Eastern inspired. Comparable the other tattoos he had seen, the ink was black. He wondered why none had color. The thought disappeared when he was nudged at for a second time.


	5. Chapter 5

The time on Pete’s cell phone read half past eight in the morning. On his usual schedule, he would already be showered, dressed, and off to work. But since it was the day after Christmas, he was more sluggish in his routine. He had yesterday and today off, only because the shop was closed, due to people wanting to spend time with family for the holiday and not with other caffeine zombies. He had seen his own family last night; dinner made by his mother, smoke blown in his face by his father, uninteresting gifts from his cousins, and of course passive aggressive remarks regarding his sexuality from one particular auntie. 

He stood in the bathroom of his apartment. The beginnings of a beard confronted him in the mirror. After a minute of turning his head side to side for different views, he reached for his razor and shaving cream. He disliked it, and disliked it even more for how quickly it always grew in. He was seeing Patrick today, and wanted to look sharp. He leaned in closer to his reflection and trimmed away the stubble. The citrusy scent of his aftershave filled the small space, lingering around the bedroom as he searched for something to wear. It was one of those instances where he missed getting new clothes for Christmas.

With Patrick’s arrival an hour later, it was a pleasure to hear that he wanted to exchange gifts _now_. Leading to today, they had done a dance with their words to understand what the other wanted. The act of being a coy dumbass about the whole thing had been mutual. Finally, there had been instructions given for Patrick to clean himself thoroughly, and, once an embrace was shared and the mattress was whining beneath their combined weight, Pete was the first to spread some belated, festive fun. 

On his knees, he had the shorter man bent over a pillow on the edge of the bed. The pants of both parties were shoved halfway off. His lips were sliding further and further into that round ass, creating a line of anticipation with his kisses. He licked, tongue at the entrance. Fuck, it was exciting - he had wanted to do this for the past month. He pulled back for a moment, to slip a hand over a budding erection of his own, and returned to work. Breaths were thick through his nose and the motions with his mouth were dragging, full. 

Patrick was nearly silent, his quivering thighs speaking for him. Soon, the polka dot print on the sheets became more mangled for each squirting pulse of his cock. With his orgasm, his loudest sound came, too. He blurted out, “Ooh, uhn! Pete..”

He sat up, stomach and pillow beneath him damp and stained. And before he could say or do anything, he was commanded at, “Turn around, o-open your mouth.”

Patrick complied. Now facing Pete while seated, he was pushed back. Pete straddled him, each knee on either side of his head. Patrick’s mouth was filled with a dose of cock. He sucked and listened, the humping motion from the hips above steady.

“Like that, mm, just like that.. Don’t stop.”

It was manageable until Pete came, further into Patrick’s throat for the definitive thrust. He choked, jerking his head away with sporadic sputters. Coughs plagued him until he covered and wiped at his mouth. He looked at him.

“Warning, much?” 

“I’m, I know, sorry,” Pete gulped. He sank onto the sheets. “I wasn’t thinking, it was too good.”

“Uh huh.”

Patrick gave him a half-smile. He moved to the bathroom to clean himself and hissed at Pete to do the same when he returned to see him ready to fall asleep. He hurried to grab the gift he had brought from his school bag, which was abandoned at the front door. It was hidden behind him when he returned to the bedroom.

“Here, this is for you,” he declared. The brown parcel paper had scribbles of Satanic Santa Clauses covering it. Somehow done using a pointed piece of charcoal that didn’t smudge. 

“Cool, but I don’t really have anything else for you,” Pete said, implying that eating out Patrick’s ass was his gift. “I figured since you’re over here so much, letting you slide rent-free is enough of a gift.”

“How kind. I’ve told you, I don’t like the people in my dorm.”

“It’s winter break.”

“So? I don’t like it there, anyway.”

Pete caught the gift when Patrick tossed it to him on the final word of his sentence. It was lighter than he assumed, and he raised an eyebrow. He opened it with care, wanting to keep the drawings, and peeled off a layer of tissue paper underneath. He placed the wrappings on the nightstand, lightly crinkled and decorating the scratched oakwood. A grin bounced onto his face at the sight of the beanie. It was long and woven, its black fabric speckled with white and contained some obscure label’s logo stitched on the rim.

“Cool!”

“You’ve said ‘cool’ twice in the past minute.”

“Oh, my bad. I’ll be cool.”

Tugging on the beanie, Pete dodged Patrick’s swiping hand. 

\---

Patrick was annoyed. He was standing in line outside the Double Door, a music club a few streets down from his school. It was his first time here. 

“Aren’t you freezing?” Patrick asked. He rubbed his mitted hands against one another for emphasis.

Pete shook his head, “Too excited to be freezing. They better hurry with the doors, though, we have to get the best view.”

“Sure. Is it going to run past midnight? I want my New Year’s kiss.”

“I’ll kiss you in the middle of the set if I have to, don’t worry.”

That wasn’t exactly the answer Patrick wanted to hear. He hadn’t pictured tonight happening this way. He had wanted to be outside for only a minute to do sparklers, get a ‘Happy New Year!’ smooch, and return to whatever place with alcohol and drink until he couldn’t taste the past twelve months. He swore when the line shoved forward a half hour later. Despite Pete hustling them inside, he had time to notice the venue’s bar and its gorgeous stock.

“Martini! Mar. Tini. I’ll hold our place!” Patrick hollered over the haze of chatter from the crowd. They were pressed to the gate a few feet from the stage. He elbowed some chick with messy dreadlocks away from them when she attempted to wiggle into their spots. “I’ll be fine! Just go, I need a drink!”

Skeptical and not wanting to ignite a stronger flame of grumpiness, Pete obeyed. He nibbled on his bottom lip at the thought of losing their place and jogged to the bar. The area was less densely populated, and he ordered an apple martini - he didn’t know any other kinds! - with a twenty and a ‘Keep the change’ to help the bartender hurry. The ability to blow money on a drink and the entrance fee came from his management position at work. Yes, Diego had given him his manager credentials yesterday afternoon, filing it under an end-of-the-quarter bonus. The past four years there were worth it. He was overjoyed! All he needed to continue his sense of overjoyment was this martini. 

His hands tapped on the counter, gaze flashing around the venue. He was about to perform a personal pet peeve of asking when the goddamn drink would be ready when a hand gripped his shoulder. He spun in the direction it had come from.

“Whoa! How are - ?” Pete’s greeting was cut short by a hug. A man his size, more muscular and with ebony skin, was chuckling and refusing to let go.

“I saw you earlier in line and wanted to say hey before the show started. You good?” the man asked, beaming. 

“Yeah, Quincy, shit, I’m good. What, Iike, you’re back in Chicago?” Pete was totally caught off guard. He rubbed at his forearms and failed to notice that the martini had arrived. 

“Nah, just visiting my cousins.. You drink that stuff?”

“What stuff? Oh, no, well, it’s for my boyfriend.”

“Gay.”

“You know me.”

Quincy took a sip of the beer in his hand, saying, “You would love Portland. If you’re ever there, you need to come hang with me. Kept my number?”

“I did. And I will if I have the weird desire to see Oregon.”

The two talked until the mixture of anxieties about Patrick’s warming drink and the possibility being anywhere beside the front row overwhelmed him. Again, they hugged.

Patrick didn’t have a lick of knowledge about what happened at the bar. His eyes were glued to his cell phone screen, scrolling through the hashtag for ‘bye2016’ on Instagram. The filtered photos of tinsel-topped party hats and jello shots sprinkled with edible glitter were a solid distraction. For every post that showed off the night sky anticipating the fireworks, he noticed his pout. He couldn’t help it; this wasn’t his scene and, obviously, wasn’t how he felt a couple’s celebration for entering the new year together should happen.

Interruption came in the form of the bright green drink in his line of sight. He downed it in a few gulps, dropping the plastic glass to the floor and praying that this show would get on with itself.

While his cell phone was returned to his pocket, he noticed Quincy. Except he didn’t know who Quincy was. All he saw was a handsome black man ogling his boyfriend from a corner at the end of the front row. He didn’t like that. He turned, and was surprised to see Pete giving the man a wave. He opened his mouth to speak, the roar of the MC’s hype a challenge to be heard over.

“Do you know that guy? Why is he staring?”

 _All you fine ladies and studly gentlemen get REEEAAADY!_

“Pete! Who is that?”

_Aha, yes, he is excited to see ya’ll, too. He is right HEREEE!_

“I’ll tell you later! Show’s starting!”

_Chance the Rapper! Let’s GOOO!_

With a holler, Pete jumped in place. He clapped and cheered and paid no mind to a bewildered Patrick. The curtains swooshed to the sides and Chance broke out onto the stage with a flurry of rhymes and hand gestures to match the heaviest bass drop audible to human ears. 

Patrick watched Pete. It was a relief to realize that he was so focused on the performance, and yet, he continued to worry over the exchange he had witnessed. Jabs and incessant shouting from the people around him limited his ability to think on it. He clung to Pete’s arm that wasn’t flailing above, enduring the remainder of the show. He did not receive a midnight kiss.

\---

In the morning, Patrick tapped on Pete’s head until he was fully awake. They exchanged expressions. Patrick’s was thoughtful and Pete’s was tired.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Pete touched his throat at the sound of his voice. It wasn’t completely gone, just raspy. He snuggled the pillow.

“Eugh, customers are going to laugh at me,” he croaked, remembering his shift for tonight. Last night drifted above the incoming responsibilities. He sighed happily.

“You were definitely yelling the entire time,” Patrick answered. He propped his cheek in the palm of his hand.

“Yeah.. Thanks for coming with me.”

Patrick said nothing. And then he said everything at once. 

“You told me you would tell me later who that guy was. It seemed to be a real friendly time.”

“Huh?”

“The guy you waved at.”

Scooting to lean against the headboard, Pete took in what was being said. He almost didn’t hear a word, the tone stirring feelings of irritation in his chest. He exhaled, “That was Quincy. We dated for, I don’t know, the summer after senior year in high school.”

Patrick’s nose furrowed, “An ex boyfriend?”

“I guess, if you want to call it that. Patrick, it was mostly a fling. I was younger and exploring.”

“I’m sure you were exploring.”

Pete glared at him. Jealousy had never been an issue between them in the past. What’s more, the way he was being spoken to, that tone, was clouding how he should handle this. It was bratty, condescending.

“Some people,” he starting, motioning at himself, “don’t burn the bridge when breaking up. Staying friends with the people you dated is perfectly fine.”

“Eh. If you do that, might as well stick a sign on your ass that says "Vacancy" so they know they’re still welcome.”

“.. Like what you did with Neil?”

The question, no, the accusation socked Patrick harder across the face than if the other man had actually clenched his fist and swung for a punch. He bolted upright. He was tangled in one of Pete’s old hoodies, the twisted drawstrings framing a face that was growing pinker with anger.

“What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Uhm.. That you were hanging around your ex boyfriend after we had gone on our first date?” Pete reminded him, only adding the questioning inflection to not be too harsh. Not that it would matter. He had said it.

“It wasn’t my choice to be around him that night. It just happened, you don’t understand.”

“Because you never really talked to me about it!”

“I don’t fucking want to!”

Patrick walked out of the bedroom. In the living room, he threw off his current outfit and began to change back into last night’s. He was barely able to stick one leg into his jeans before he had company.

“I won’t press about Neil. I was fine not pressing before, but now you’re all pissed because I waved to Quincy. That’s not fair,” Pete said. He began to rub at his temples when he didn’t receive an ounce of acknowledgment. “I also talked to him at the bar when I was getting your drink. He said hi to me and hugged me. It was nice. He and I are friends now, you and I are together now, and I’m trying to get why you’re acting this way now.”

Patrick’s pants were in place and he was reaching for his undershirt. It was pulled over his head, followed by a fluffy v-neck, a windbreaker, and his socks at the door. Boots were being laced as Pete joined him.

“We’re together now, right?”

Snow spilled into the apartment when Patrick opened the door. There had been a storm early this morning. A good foot of the stuff stood in Patrick’s way, cold and untouched. He took two steps beyond the door. His boots, even with their slight platform, disappeared into the snow. He turned to face Pete, the sob shuttering into the air sooner than his planned ‘Fuck off!’.


	6. Chapter 6

Patrick would be turning twenty this year. He would be finishing the first half of his four-year program at the I.I.A. this year. His tattoo collection was expected to receive an addition or two this year. He was supposed to be growing up, becoming a true young adult - not a teenager crying on the doorstep. So, so not what he wanted. There was a maturity gap between himself and Pete, which was understandable, they were a bit apart in age, and it drove him crazy that he wasn’t over crying for stupid reasons yet. He supposed that wasn’t something he could hope for this year. 

He was unable to move until a pair of hands guided him to retrace his steps. The unintelligible swears of an annoyed Norwegian neighbor while he took his mutt for a piss helping to hurry the process, too.

Lumps of snow had been brought inside by Patrick’s boots, currently melting into the floor and causing silent distress in Pete about future stains. Though it was ignored prior to the end of any tears.

Together in the kitchen, Pete and Patrick talked. They stood and faced one another. A moment ago, they had already tried to talk on the couch, and couldn’t handle it. They kept lying on the cushions or kissing. 

“It just makes me feel shitty,” Patrick huffed, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses. “No matter who I date or fuck around with, when it’s over, we don’t get along. And then I lose mutual friends because they think I’m.. I hate this word.. _dramatic_. Or whatever.”

Pete nodded and asked, “Has this happened a lot? I know you don’t like to talk about past relationships, but how many people has this happened with?”

“Three.”

“Hey, that’s not so bad. You’re still growing and figuring out what you like and need in a partner,” Pete said. He scratched at his chin in thought.

The shorter man looked down at the floor, telling it, “Yeah, I know. I feel like I should have had a long-lasting, meaningful relationship by this point. One that doesn’t end on a bad note. I want to.”

Pete moved to wrap both arms around Patrick when he noticed the beginnings of another sob trickling out. His fingers snuck beneath the windbreaker that was still in place from the attempted escape.

“Let me guess, you’re going to say that you want to be my ‘long-lasting, meaningful relationship, one that doesn’t end on a bad note’?”

“Yes. Also, please don’t cry.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

Patrick looked up at him. He sniffled twice and moved out of the hold, his tailbone pressed to the counter.

“When you stop being friends with people due to poor press with an ex, suddenly they think it’s cool to say what they want about you. They call you a slut. Even if you’re still in the same life drawing class or go to the same parties,” Patrick said. He pressed further against the counter with the hope of vanishing into it.

“Good, that shows you what kind of losers they are. You don’t want them around,” Pete reminded him.

“I want friends, though.”

“No, not if you’re a dramatic slut to them.”

Shit, probably shouldn’t have reiterated that particular insult. The conversation paused. Patrick’s clenched hands smearing around his eyes again.

“Patrick?” Pete ventured, worried that he wasn’t providing the help he intended to. Not that he knew for certain what kind of help was needed. He hesitated when he received no response, and continued, “You’re a good person. You’ll make a ton of friends in your life, I know that.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, of course. You made friends with me, and I’d say we’re pretty different.”

Patrick’s mind flashed to any instance where they weren’t on the same wavelength, last night’s concert in particular, and felt his lips purse. He repeated, “We’re pretty different.”

“It’s like what they say about how opposites attract.”

“Something like that.”

\---

Pete’s nostrils flared in the cold. He was running, arms wrapped around two paper bags. The bags were bulging and stamped with the logo of a nearby pastrami shop. His nostrils flared further when the bag on the right opened slightly due to a jump he made over a pothole in a parking lot. The sharp tang of mustard and savory potato wedges wafted upward and he smiled.

It was easy to find Patrick. All he ever talked about lately was how much he hated his ceramics professor. And today was Wednesday, his roster dictating that he be in the main ceramics workshop from noon until half past one. The workshop’s doors were propped open to allow students and visitors to come and go.

Pete called out from where he stood near the entrance, “Hey! Hurry, I got us some lunch.”

Patrick heard the voice, recognized it, and set down the lump of unopened clay he had gone to grab. The clay matched the patch that was smeared below his jawline, a rusty red and creating the illusion of bloodspattered sunflowers. 

“Wow, I didn’t know I had you trained to bring me food,” he chirped. Walking over, he grabbed a towel from a basket near the doors. “I’m such a stud.”

“You’re welcome,” Pete said, leaning away when a grab was made at the bags. He gestured at the workshop with his head. “Finish and wash up and we’ll go eat.”

“I’m done. Professor Rude Ass knows which sculpture is mine, it’s the one he hates. He’ll store it for me.”

“Well, get clean, you’re covered in clay stuff.”

“Pete, it’s an arts school. I’ve seen people walk around with dildos on gold chains and claim it’s part of their finals project. I’m fine.”

Pete chuckled and relinquished a bag. They locked hands and headed to the student union building, Patrick in the lead. They found a bench and managed to start eating just before their meals became room temperature.

Gulping down the final few of his fries, he always had to have his fries first, Pete said, “I thought I could get a preview of some of your art after this. For your exhibition this weekend? I’ve got time before work.”

“Mm,” Patrick nodded slowly, mouth full. He swirled a piece of crust into a glob of mustard on the inside of his bag and inspected it. “We can do that. I can’t believe you want to go.”

“You invited me!”

Patrick stuck his tongue out playfully. Of course he had invited him. Last year, the only people he had invited was his parents. They had made an appearance and gave him the polite ‘This is nice, sweet heart’. It was pretty lame.

To have Pete there this year was going to be a huge improvement, he was sure of it. He had already told his parents that they didn’t need to swing by. In fact, he had given them the wrong date in case they did try to swing by. He didn’t need any awkward run-ins. 

They chatted for close to fifteen minutes, stopping when Pete’s cell phone rang. It was immediately answered when he saw it was Diego. It was a short call, though it was filled with plenty of bootlicking.

“.. Your exhibition is going to have to stay a surprise until this weekend,” Pete said. The call had ended, and he was beginning to stand from the bench. “I need to head in early.”

Patrick eyed him, his voice soft, “Being a manager sucks.”

“Not really. The pay is good and I get to be in charge.”

Patrick was on the edge of a comment about not technically being in charge if he had to be called in early, but held it in. Instead, he reminded, “The next time I’ll see you is this weekend, then. Here on Saturday at eleven?”

“Definitely,” Pete confirmed. He pecked Patrick on the cheek and headed out of the building.

\---

On time and not seeing his boyfriend in the gallery space, Pete explored. He held onto a pamphlet and his cell phone, hoping to come across a new wallpaper. 

At the beginning of the spring semester, the underclassmen were able to hold exhibitions for whatever work or groups of work they liked. Since Patrick was displaying an entire collection of charcoal pieces, his exhibition required a gallery. It was on the ground floor of the school’s studio building. At the very end of the hall, well-lit and squeezed into this thirty-first day of January. The exhibition had no title, with the majority of the pieces remaining unnoted.

Pete was about a third of the way through the collection after five minutes. However, each time he moved on to examine the next piece, the rate at which his gaze moved became more gradual. He studied what he was seeing more and more intensely. Huh. The artwork seemed so.. familiar? Why?

A much younger man with the side of his head shaved, to expose his many earrings, stepped aside from the following piece Pete was set to see. Upon realizing there was a free space, he approached it. It had a chrome frame, like the others, and continued with the overall theme of outdoor landscapes. The dark color matched his eyes, capable and intriguing. The broad strokes of the charcoal mixed with finer ones to form an image on the canvas. There was a porch with a garden in front of it and-- Flowers! The daisies and hydrangeas in the bed of dirt helped him understand the familiarity. Those petals and leaves and genuine touch were the same as Patrick’s neck tattoo!

Pete couldn’t believe he had never thought to ask who was the artist behind Patrick’s ink! He stood there, blinking in surprise at the blooms. Wait, did this mean he had done the linework for all three of the tattoos he had? For now, he couldn’t remember exactly, he was too caught up in the fact that the sunflowers were undoubtedly done by Patrick. Wow. 

Where was he, anyway?

Deciding to press pause on his gallery viewing, Pete moved to the doorway and pulled out his cell phone. He sent a text to the missing artist. He watched several people come and go, students, mainly, and didn’t receive a response through text message. Rather, it was in person.

“There you are,” Pete said with a wave at the sight of his boyfriend turning the corner and walking along the hallway. The wave morphed into a come hither motion.

Patrick appeared bashful. Both hands in the pockets of his faded denim jeans and the newspaper boy cap he was wearing placed on a downward slope. He didn’t speak until the distance between them was less than a couple feet, “I’m glad you’re here. Have you had a look yet?”

“Yeah, sort of. I wanted to finish the rest with you.”

“You cheap date, using my exhibition.”

Pete grinned, “You know it. And hey! You’ve done the lineart for your tattoos, haven’t you?”

Patrick was glad he had been able to figure that out. It seemed douchey and narcissistic to have to explain that what was displayed on the walls was also displayed on his skin. He was on the path to mirroring the grin in front of him when he was asked his most hated question. Most hated in this galaxy or any other.

“Why the sunflower tattoo?”

Patrick forced a small laugh, shaking his head, “Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy it.”

“Is it a secret?”

“Maybe? It doesn’t matter. If I told you, you would think I’m a freak.”

Irritated that his _irritation_ wasn’t being sensed, Patrick took a step back. He had no intention of sharing the significance behind his tattoo. Especially not here and now. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, staring at him, “Let’s go inside, seriously.”

“All right,” Pete said. He nudged at Patrick’s nearest arm with delight, claiming, “But I want you to tell me eventually.”

Patrick was silent.


	7. Chapter 7

Pete leaned on the supply closet’s door and heaved out a breath that must have been stuck in his chest since the sun had set. His neck was sore from hunching over the register, eyes stained with the beginnings of a bloodshot glare. He had been so wound up over running this shift correctly, now that they were done for the night, he didn’t know what to do with himself. The closing paperwork, obviously. Aside from that.

The two other employees working with him asked if they could head out after a mediocre sweep and wipe down. It was Saturday night, they still had time to party. Seriously, they were going to tell him outright like that? At least use some fake, virtuous excuse and say you have to go help your grandmother with her homework. He fought a scowl. None of the cushions in the sitting area had even been refluffed! 

They’re teenagers who have no idea what it means to be responsible, he reminded himself, and he permitted them to leave. The bundle of brass bells on the door chimed with their exit, seeming to declare, ‘Later, loser!’.

They’re teenagers.

Patrick tumbled into his mind. Soon moving out of his adolescent years. After that, Pete would be unable to use the same excuse for his moodiness or lack of communication or weird sense of humor. Could the excuse change to, ‘Oh, he’s barely a young adult’? The pen he held against the stack of paperwork stopped. The blue ink stretched out the dollar sign he had written, a blotted tail now challenging the uniformity of the printed lines. He glanced around at nothing in particular. Then back to the paperwork. He signed his name at the bottom.

The doubt he held over their age difference was repressed. However, that was only thanks to the distraction of zero messages from Patrick. The home screen of his cell phone showed nothing more than the time, the weather, and a snapped background image of that charcoal garden from the exhibition.

He reread their conversation from that morning:

_whats tonights plans?_

_I work from four to close. Come hang out, I’ll take you home after._

_k, we better get food. you never buy me food_

_> :I_

Pete would bet his left leg that he bought Patrick food every time they saw each other. He knew it was a joke - wasn’t it? - and he felt annoyed nonetheless. It was past closing, he should be here already. Had he forgotten? Did he think there was actual anger behind that last emoji he sent? No way, what had happened? His thumb did a hesitant hover above the call button before he pressed it. 

With a shot of who knows what in one hand, and box of Cheez-Its in the other, Patrick was unable to answer his cell phone. Not that he could hear it ringing, anyway. He was at a noisy get together for one of his roommates’ girlfriends. He had been invited and forgotten about it until the aforementioned roommate shoved a pack of solo cups into his arms and promised all the booze he wanted if he helped them get ready. He had done his part, now refilling the cup with the encouragement from a group of people he vaguely remembered from an Intro to Still Life class. He held it skyward like a trophy after a hard-fought championship. His cell phone rang again, inaudible. The house raged, the very paint on the walls quaking.

“Goddamnit,” Pete mumbled. He pushed his cell phone into his front pocket and went to fold away his apron.

Headphones in his ears with the Misfits cranked, he locked the store. The beanie he had been gifted for Christmas was snug on his head. Its elastic kept the headphones from becoming loose. Being almost six years old, the buds were cracked and had seemed to enjoy dislodging at random. The walk to his apartment was short, around twenty minutes, which meant he had plenty of time to contemplate what was happening in this relationship. Great.

As far as he was aware, Patrick had been fine this past week. No signs of anger or sadness. Had he done something wrong? They had went on another ice cream date, shopping for matching scarves, reorganized Pete’s kitchen after cleaning it, and had sex in a way that caused him to redden at the memories. It was a good week! Normal. 

So why didn’t he know where he was?

The worries rolling around his brain refused to smooth out. Definitely not when he lay down in bed and made a final attempt at contact with a third call. There was no answer. 

Pete plugged his cell phone into the wall charger and left the ringtone on full volume. In case his boyfriend decided to grace him with the knowledge of what the fuck he was doing. He didn’t fall asleep until an hour later, arms involuntarily folded.

\---

“Err?” 

“It’s me. Can you let me in?”

“Wait, you what? Let you in?” Patrick’s voice had shifted to a less sluggish tone. He turned over in bed. “Are you outside?”

“Yeah. I called you three times last night and once this morning. I want to see you,” Pete said firmly. 

“I’m all gross. Plus, you know I hate hanging out at my dorm.”

“I’m not here to get intimate, and I don’t care if you hate hanging out here. I wouldn’t be here if you had stuck to our plans last night.”

“.. Let me get my keys.”

Butterflies flapped to life in Patrick’s stomach. He shivered. They were vicious butterflies, not the little happy ones he had during their first few dates. He was hungover, this guilt a cause for a deeper pounding in his skull. He grabbed his lanyard and exited out of the Dorm Building E, his room being on the ground floor. 

“Hey stud,” Patrick greeted him. He went in for a kiss, the gesture accepted with flat, passive lips. He looked up at Pete, saying, “I’m glad you came to see me. Let’s get back inside.”

“All right.”

Upon entering the dorm room, Patrick made a ‘Shhh’ motion with his fingers and pointed to a passed out kid on the top bunk. The bathroom door was ajar, which revealed the other half of the dorm room where another bunk bed sat in a similarly crowded space. He shut both doors and returned to his bed on the bottom bunk. He had stepped out with sweatpants and a thin crewneck; the creeping numbness from the low temperatures were fought off by the pair of blankets he had waiting. He patted the spot beside him.

Pete watched him, his words careful, “What did you do last night? Please tell me you stayed safe.”

“I was safe,” Patrick said, smiling a bit when the taller man ducked under the top bunk and sank into the mattress. “Don’t worry.”

“Uhm, you kind of forced me to worry. Patrick, you can’t.. What did you do last night?”

“T.J. had a party for his girlfriend.”

“Like, your roommate T.J.? I thought you said he was obnoxious? Same with his girl,” Pete sighed. He had never met these people, though had heard plenty of stories about how they were unfair to him for various reasons. 

Patrick winced, “Right. A bunch of people I actually do like showed up and I started drinking.”

“I’m sure you did. Look, I don’t mind that, but we had plans. You weren’t answering your phone.”

“I know, I know. Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry I’m apparently not entertaining enough for you.”

Pete slumped, his gaze aimed at the desk and chair he assumed was Patrick’s. Who else would keep a laminated photo of Orlando Bloom propped by their laptop? Sketches of landscapes were attached with metallic washi tape to the wall above it, perfectly in line with the carved wooden ‘P’ that had been hung, as well. It was a cute setup. He would have been more intrigued if it weren’t for last night. His gaze instead found its way to Patrick.

Patrick failed to do anything beyond clenching and unclenching his hands, heart rate pushed along at a quicker pace than usual. The butterflies in his stomach rioted, their pitchforks and torches jabbing at every millimeter of flesh they could reach. It sucked. He edged forward, almost positive the figurative insects were at fault, and kissed Pete’s neck.

“I don’t want that, seriously,” Pete said. He was trying to wallow in absence of any verbal comfort from Patrick. How awful, he couldn’t get further than a one-word apology with him! If that was how things were going to be today, or for who knows how long, he was leaving. Yes, should get out of here. No matter how badly he wanted to get mushy-feely with some cuddling and anything that came after it. He had been preparing to announce the need to go do some thinking in private when his neck was abruptly under Patrick’s mouth. He shied away. 

When he wasn’t totally rejected, Patrick went all in - cupping Pete’s crotch and lips waltzing to the area smooch by smooch. 

“Does fucking my throat until I’m, until I choke on your cum count for getting intimate?”

\---

Pete sat at Patrick’s desk chair. The button of his jeans were undone, and he was too out of it to bother. He closed his eyes for a moment. He knew it was an asshole move to not be in bed. Especially after that. 

Patrick opened the bathroom door. He had been brushing his teeth and staring at a pimple that had made its home on the space above his left eyebrow. 

“Can we take a nap?” Pete asked, swiveling lazily in the chair. “I’m tired.”

“Hm, I could blame that tired feeling on the _blow_ job,” Patrick said while lowering his voice. His roommate continued to sleep on the top bunk. “Though I’d rather blame _your_ job, so I could tell you that you work too much.”

“Do I?”

Patrick nodded, his backside planted on the edge of the bed, “I feel like you do. I see you enough, but you always have that forty or fifty hour a week schedule. It’s boring.”

“I like my job and my manager promotion was less than two months ago. Things are falling into place.”

“They are?”

It was Pete’s turn to nod, “I’ve got a good job, a place to live in a great city, friends, you - it’s all there. College may have been fun, sure, I’m just glad I didn’t need it to feel successful.”

“Hah, tell that to my parents. That’s a big part of why I chose an arts school in the first place. It’s not a ‘real’ college in their opinion,” Patrick said with an irked tone. 

Chuckling, Pete shifted in the chair. He was about to join his boyfriend on the bed when he heard something that made him stop.

“The other big part is because I don’t want a job like yours.”

Pete’s lips formed a silent question. He had no idea what the question revolved around, since it wouldn’t come forth and any leftover energy he had was spent on not falling over. There was no way Patrick, wait--

“The only thing I can be is an artist,” Patrick exhaled. “I don’t want to be conventional.”

“Okay. Does that mean I’m conventional?”

“Yes, and that’s what you want, right?”

“I never said that.”

“Your job says it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a manager at Saved Latin.”

“And I never said that.”

Their words lulled. Pete wanted to progress, yet didn’t have a clue for what to say. Patrick didn’t want to progress, yet knew precisely what to say. 

“Are you, I mean, cool with me and my job?” Pete scooted forward in the chair. His features were tense, unhappy. 

“Yes, I promise I am. All I’m saying is it’s not my type of career,” Patrick said, idly pawing at his stomach. He was starving. “Why does me saying that upset you?”

“Because it’s like you’re talking down to me,” Pete admitted. “Saying how you don’t want to be conventional and how I work too much for something that I think, I think you feel is beneath you.” 

“No! Oh, shit, no. That’s not how I’m trying to be,” Patrick said as he rose from his place on the bed. He knelt beside Pete and rested his head on the closest available knee. He was relieved when he felt a few fingers on the back of his neck. “It’s hard for me sometimes to remember that we’re not the same. I always enjoy our time together. Us having separate lives outside of our adventures slips my mind. A lot.”

Another weak apology. This one didn’t couldn’t make it far enough to ‘sorry’. Pete avoided a side discussion regarding that issue and skipped straight to the larger headache, “You’re fine with my career path? And how I don’t fully understand yours?” 

Patrick smushed his cheek further into the fabric of the jeans, saying, “I’m fine.. Don’t worry about understanding mine; you will eventually.”


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t on purpose, but Pete felt as if he were intruding on an intimate moment. His eyes widened while he watched.

A young man, no older than himself, lay on a leather padded chair. It had a cushy space for his head to rest, though he was orientated away from any spectators. One arm was outstretched on a separate section of the chair, at the mercy of the artist’s tattoo gun. Even from behind the shop’s front window pane, the _whirr, whirr!_ of the machine could be heard, bulleting black ink into the freckled skin. The tip of the tattoo gun edged downward and focused on the young man’s wrist. Straight on the bone. They both flinched.

Pete wished he hadn’t stopped to look. He had, and he was fully invested. Now he was wishing to see the young man’s face. With no idea who it resembled, his mind switched back and forth between imagining himself and Patrick. 

For himself, he was taking a plunge; a rebellious, new experience that would leave him with a permanent souvenir. Getting a tattoo definitely felt more appealing to him at the moment than it would have several months ago. Although, he didn’t have a clue what he would choose. Or where he would want it. The pain was an issue, too. He was man enough to confess that he was kind of a pussy when it came to pain. In his own thoughts.

For Patrick, he knew it would be a routine procedure. Simply adding to the collection he had started. And the collection could move in any direction - more pieces on his neck, another nature image or even a middle finger on his foot just for the heck of it. Whatever it would be, it would be stunning. He was almost certain of that. It could be assumed that the pain wasn’t anything to worry about for Patrick. He had never complained of it when discussing his tattoos, plus, if he had dealt with the needle scratching at a large portion of his inner thigh, anything else couldn’t be so bad. He knew Patrick’s thighs were particularly acute to touch.

The tattoo artist shot him a glance and he disappeared from sight.

Pete sighed and rested his back on the brick wall that separated the front window pane from the door. The little bistro where he and Patrick had agreed to meet at for lunch was a block ahead of him. He was fifteen minutes early, completely commonplace, and was killing time by exploring the area. Roscoe Village was a neighborhood he wasn’t familiar with, his gaze sweeping over the intricately tiled roofs of apartment complexes and the swaying flower pots outside of storefronts, the petunias and their petals seeming to disregard him. He was almost as out of place as the tattoo parlor. Nevertheless, he was enjoying the change in atmosphere.

Pete wasn’t one to remember significant dates, but he was aware that he had been dating Patrick for some time now. Close to six months, if he had to guess. He wanted to celebrate with him, just a nice dinner. It was something to be excited over - the length of their relationship together was significant for people around their age. At least, that’s what it felt like. What they were doing was the exploration of a connection. An attraction of opposites. They weren’t a perfect, emotionless, no-fuss, hookup. 

They weren’t perfect.

Patrick made him happy. His cheeks would ache from smiling after an exchange of lewd jokes or goofy stories, with Patrick’s subtle, snorting laughter furthering the ache. They were collectively witty and close to always being on a positive note. New experiences were abound! Moreover, and to be honest, Pete relished the fact that Patrick was younger than him. It reassured him that he had game. He knew people eyeballed them when they were out. He knew why and couldn’t care less. That’s right. Patrick’s buxom backside was constantly beneath one of his hands in public settings, guiding and squeezing and saying ‘Fuck you’ to anyone who looked twice.

Patrick made him sad. The worst was probably Patrick’s shenanigans with scheduling. He could let the whines about how the weekends were meant for partying slide by, and even forgave the phone calls at four am; an utterly plastered voice asking him if there was a cappuccino delivery service. It wasn’t that bad. What really got to him was when their dates or hang outs were shaken off. Typically accompanied by an excuse about being tired. His schedule was more strict, he couldn’t just bounce around tasting the flavor of the day. He had hours to work. 

Pete’s career was such a point of pride for him. He felt accomplished and wanted to continue climbing what Patrick called ‘Corporate America’s Dick’. The idea of fully owning and operating a branch, perhaps all branches, of Saved Latin Brewery was so appealing to him. He could do it, he wanted to do it! Patrick’s eye rolls at this didn’t make him uncertain of this choice, but rather their relationship. Yes, Pete understood that being a student was a career in itself. However, when it came time for graduation, those charcoal drawings better be able to pay some bills. And if not, that art degree was more than enough of a qualification for any basic service industry job.

A ring from the cell phone in his pocket collided with his train of thought. It was Patrick asking for directions.

\---

“.. Why did you order that kind if you don’t like basil?” Pete asked. His thick eyebrows formed an arch of confusion.

Patrick shrugged, “It’s fine. You know I love prosciutto on my pizza.”

“I know you love a good sausage, yep,” Pete said, smiling when Patrick paused to squint at him. He returned to eating his own pizza, the bits of pineapple and bacon mixing into a sweet, savory gift for his tastebuds. 

Patrick, with a stack of green on the side of his plate, began to munch on his pizza. The prosciutto and cheese were covered in red pepper flakes a moment later, and soon he was reaching for a second slice. The pizza had been divided between them, no topping substitutions permitted from the set menu. It was eighteen inches of dough most likely to be devoured in a single sitting by their appetites. It was going to be done in somewhat of a dignified, slower manner. Well, hopefully. They should try to taste the food. Indulge in the environment. The little bistro had tiny succulents on each table and three dollar signs on Yelp for Christ’s sake. 

The meal was delicious, right down to the cucumber and mint water with the type of crushed ice that was easy to chew. Pete swallowed his current mouthful of said ice. He stared at Patrick.

Their date swirled around them. It was like one of those heat of the moment things, except there was only this cold feeling. Maybe it was the crushed ice. Shit. Pete could recognize everything he disliked about his boyfriend on this date. It was the need for directions and tardiness, the picky attitude with food and pretentious pronunciation of _prosciutto_ , the lack of acknowledgement for the check followed by a complaint about needing a Saturday night event. These dislikes swirled with greater speed and heaviness the more he dwelled on them, soon forming a foggy chamber for his mind. 

He opened his mouth to discuss breaking up, and a different question interrupted. 

“Why do you have those tattoos?”

“Because they’re mine,” Patrick said, not missing a beat. He continued to scroll through the nonsense on his cell phone. This left him unable to notice Pete’s scowl.

“I want to know. Why do you?”

“..”

“Patrick!”

Now holding the attention of the shorter man across from him and several close tables, Pete waited. He lightly gripped the embroidered tablecloth, his fingers sweaty and poised. 

“Why are you asking all of a sudden?”

“I want to know. You, you’re beautiful and it’s a part of you I want to understand.”

Patrick, after tucking his cell phone away, said, “Aw, you know I’m a sucker for being called beautiful.. I don’t want you to take back what you said, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“My tattoos aren’t as beautiful as you think they are.”

Pete considered this. Then he shook his head. It didn’t really matter at this point, he wanted to know. It was as if the inked images had been dangled around him this entire time, the threads holding them up snipped by his words. He leaned forward a bit.

“Each time.. God, this sound stupid to say out loud, each time I’ve had a long-term boyfriend, I’ve gotten a tattoo. I mean, once the relationship is over, I get it. It’s to remind me of the ups and downs in life,” Patrick admitted. The expression on his face was neutral. 

“What?” 

“Once the relationship--”

“Is over, yeah, I heard. Sorry, I, uhm,” Pete fumbled and found himself gripping the tablecloth again, “that’s pretty out there. I guess.. I shouldn’t expect anything less from you. You’re a creative person.”

Patrick sighed, “It’s not being creative. It’s coping in a creative way.”

Pete’s lips twitched in response. He stayed calm. 

“Will you tell me what each one means?” 

“No.”

“Why?”

“They’re personal stories involving me and the other person,” Patrick answered, his even tone wavering. He was getting annoyed. “If I had to tell the meanings to anyone, it would be them. Still, I wouldn’t need to. They would already understand what the tattoo means by looking at it. So I shouldn’t ever, ever have to explain anything. And that’s exactly how I like it.”

This had to have been the best - worst? - time to break up. Either way, Pete wouldn’t have the experience. He merely sat there. Distressed.


	9. Chapter 9

Pete had a feeling that he had been staring at the mirror a lot lately. This particular instance, he was staring quietly. If such a thing was possible.

His right hand did a dance through his hair. Combing and twirling and clawing at the half-blond strands. It was time for a trim and to put more dye in. He went to the salon every two months, and had been doing so for the past three years. He liked this style. 

Now as a manager with the ambition to be even more, perhaps he should lose the dye job. Go back to his natural color. It was a deep brown, similar to the color of coffee beans that had been roasting to the point where they were would be considered ‘dark roast’. Dark roast coffee beans have less caffeine and are easier on the average stomach. He smirked.

Compared to his boyfriend, he was less energetic and had a personality that was smoother on the stomach.

Pete broke his quiet stare and returned to his bed. Patrick was on the left half, curled and made into a sloppy burrito by the triple layer of bunched blankets, drool on the pillow like a sea of salsa. He pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his sweatpants, which read that it was three minutes away from ten in the morning. The evening shift for Saturday started in six hours. He wondered whether or not Patrick would sleep until then. 

He knelt down beside the bed, forehead hinged a foot from Patrick’s. He heard the other’s breathing catch and felt his own stop. Patrick then pushed out a lazy snore. It seemed so peaceful compared to his following grunt.

“Patrick,” Pete mumbled, unsure if he had actually said the name. The room was static. He tried again, lips curling together to say nothing instead. Chapped skin touched his teeth and he began to chew, blood drawn from a peeling flake.

He needed to do this. It had been over a week since he had realized that their relationship had run its course. Yet he continued to spend time together. Their cute brunch dates and midnight intimacies distracted him until they parted ways, the reality of what was happening striking him to a point of self-loathing soon after. He raised his head.

Beneath those blankets, Pete knew were Patrick’s tattoos. Some words, a wave, and those exquisite sunflowers that had all been sketched out by their owner. Previously, before becoming aware of why they were in place, he had adored them. He had covered them in smooches and hoped to eternally have a view of them. He had adored them so much, considerations were made regarding ink for himself. 

He winced when the top sunflower caught a ray of light from the window. Patrick had shifted.

But tattoos on his body at this point? No way. No _way_. Why bother? He was going to end up on Patrick’s body, anyway.. Right? How long or serious did the relationships need to be to warrant an immortal portrait on that skin? Was Neil one of the tattoos? How could he be - Patrick had been willing to spend time with him when they were supposedly over. Hang on, what, was there a rule that anyone who became a tattoo was off-limits forever? These things were beyond him, and it wasn’t exactly something he could ask about. It was weird. He worried that he was going to become another mark, and, also, he wanted that to happen. He had earned it - this strange trophy.

When it was done with, the second it was over, he assumed Patrick would begin to plot where and what to make of him on his flesh. He wanted to know the details. Which piece of his soul was decent enough to grace that body? Did it matter? In any case, it was going to be muddled with the others of Patrick’s past and future. Fuck, he felt disgusting. He wanted them to break up.

Pete stood and made no disturbance. He allowed the snooze to carry on, taking the spare apartment key from Patrick’s lanyard hung by the front door. He prayed this would go unnoticed. It did. Patrick was too groggy and fussing about a paper due tomorrow to do anything more than shove his lanyard in his backpack when it was time to go.

Pete realized he couldn’t do this in person. His steps to the shop became heavy and a note of anxiety crescendoed in his ribcage.

\---

The next morning at his apartment, Pete vomited into the sink because he couldn’t make it to the toilet. Guess it was good luck he did that before they started talking. A heave or two came after. He spat, flecks hitting the edge of the mirror. He shook in place, his cell phone held outstretched. This sucked. He blasted the faucet’s water over the mess and splashed some over his mouth. Scrunching down between the towel rack and the bathtub, he pressed ‘Call’.

“Hey, it’s early, Pete..” Patrick answered with. Unsuspecting. His bed could be heard creaking in the background.

“Yeah, I know. I have to talk to you,” Pete’s throat was dry from the bile. He continued, worried that the dryness would escalate, “We-We’re not working out. You and I. I’m sorry, j-just, we’re not.”

“Huh? Are you serious? What did I do?”

“Nothing. Well, you, there’s a lot of things. I don’t want to explain.”

“.. What the hell is wrong with you? You want to end this and you won’t tell me why?”

“We’re not, it’s--”

“Tell me!”

Pete groaned internally, the loud voice from the other end of the call echoing off the bathroom tiles. He gave the only explanation he had, being a wimp who was dying to end a conversation he failed to do face-to-face, “We’re too different. Who we are and what we’re looking for isn’t the same. I’ve had a good time with you.. I don’t want to be a bad memory for you.”

Pete had no idea how much of what he had said got through. He heard silence and glanced at the screen. The call had been ended.

Everything had gone too fast. He was barely sure that they were broken up. He dropped his cell phone and leaned over the open toilet, able to reach and vomit anew. This sickness, both physically and emotionally, had better not interfere with the shift he had tonight. 

\---

It was summer. And it sure as hell felt like it.

The humidity was so high, not only did Pete’s pants stick to his legs, but his apron stuck to his pants. Every single drink that customers at the shop ordered was iced. Couples paraded on their way to Lake Michigan or Navy Pier, ready to flounce around in the water or share funnel cakes Lady and the Tramp style. He regarded them with less than a shrug, the back of his neck bearing a slick sheen from the heat of the espresso machine. Any time he wanted to wipe the area, he had to grab a dampened cloth, step out of the customers’ view, and rewash his hands. Sometimes he caught his reflection in the shiny bags that stored the sugar packets. The image was distorted, however, he continued to be caught off guard. He kept forgetting that his hair was its natural color. The dye was gone and each side of his head was trimmed short, almost shaved. The top of his head had slightly longer strands, made neat by pomade. 

He wasn’t exactly sure how long it had been since the break up. He had shoved it to the back of his mind. Deleted any photos of them from his cell phone, blocked the number. The single item of guilt on his conscience was his occasional check of Patrick’s Instagram account - pumpkin.stump.latte. Yeah. 

There was nothing to allude to what Patrick was doing. The profile picture had changed several weeks ago. It adjusted from Patrick’s laughing face within a blurred backyard barbecue scene, to some wildflowers in a vase. Lupines and poppies, blue and red. He thought it was odd when he knew the names of the wildflowers. He remembered shortly after that Patrick had once made a date out of sharing a dozen glazed doughnuts from Krispy Kreme while they browsed his favorite ‘Urban Botany’ pressing. 

In the past couple months, there hadn’t been posts beyond a filtered photo of a ceramics gallery and a black and white photo of a pair of sneakers near a door. Frustrations wet the tip of Pete’s tongue whenever he loaded the page and saw no fresh posts. He needed to stop doing this. There had never been posts specifically about his tattoos, it wasn’t going to start today.

“A large iced green tea. Uh, extra ice,” a woman with sunglasses ordered, being next in line. Pete nodded and turned to fill the order. Condensation had already formed when he handed the cup to her, his fingerprints decorating the sides. She shuffled off to load her drink with simple syrup.

“Good afternoon, how can--?” Pete’s greeting cut itself short. He blinked at Patrick. This was too sudden. Immediately, he wished he could change the question from ‘How can I help you?’ to ‘Why are you here?’. He couldn’t, though. That would be rude. He was the manager here and needed to be polite. This was a normal customer interaction. He tried again.

“How can I help you?”

“Cappuccino.”

“For here or to go?”

“To go.”

“That’s three eighteen, please.”

Wordlessly, Patrick dropped him four dollars, shaking his head at the offered the change. His gaze followed the coins as it was fell into the tip jar. His gaze shifted, meeting what was across from him. No other part of his face moved. Those azure, yellow-tinged irises ignited with more than could ever be said in today’s interaction.

Pete reciprocated the gaze. He wondered if he looked alright. He wondered if it even mattered how he looked. He wondered if Patrick could see straight through him; able to know about Pete’s habit of checking his Instagram or how he touched himself to the many archived selfies. 

They turned. Patrick went to wait at the wooden bar and Pete told his coworker he would be making the cappuccino that had been rung up.

Pete made the drink, the paper fiber cup warm in his hand, its lid snapped on carefully. He wrote Patrick’s name on the side without thinking about it. A blush covered the tops of his cheeks upon noticing this. He walked to the counter and held the drink out. Its owner was occupied with a cell phone screen. Oh. He frowned and drew in a breath.

“Cappuccino for Patrick!”

Before Patrick approached, he rolled the sleeves of his light flannel. The fabric was folded at an inch above his elbows. He was confident that Pete’s awareness was at its peak, his lips pursed in surprise. His newest tattoo, in the crook of his left elbow, was a aerial view of a cappuccino. It consisted solely of black ink, the delicate, curved handle and the chipped saucer beneath part of the finer details. The center attraction was a maple leaf twirled into the foam. It was gorgeous. 

Patrick moved to collect his drink. He quickly grabbed at the cup and managed to catch Pete’s hand with it. That was on purpose. He grinned for a split-second, left arm flexing, and spoke in a whisper.

“Just wanted to hear you say my name one last time.”

Patrick pulled the cappuccino to his mouth, sipped, and swallowed. He set the cup down by throwing it over the counter. He was already marching toward the door before it doused the tile.

Pete smiled at the customers who nodded with sympathy. He smiled at his coworker who said there was someone coming in to get extra hours, which allowed him to have an early night. He smiled for the sake of smiling on the walk home.

It was the moment he had his front door shut that he started to cry.


End file.
